


getting sweeter (it'll be good)

by onceuponamoon



Series: abo jt/ebs [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Come Eating, Comeplay, Felching, Getting Together, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Pregnancy Kink, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 13:10:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13975821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceuponamoon/pseuds/onceuponamoon
Summary: “Believe it or not,” Hickey says once he’s resurfaced from the tangle of his jersey, “It gets easier.”Jordan takes a deep breath, through his fuckingmouth, and prays that his buddy’s right.





	getting sweeter (it'll be good)

**Author's Note:**

> literally nobody asked for this but i'm in love with this non-existent pairing. this is pretty much 40 pages of filth.
> 
> unbeta'd

Cinnamon, saffron, and something _spicy_ , something that Jordan’s never before smelled or tasted coat the back of his throat and Jordan’s -- he’s on his feet before he even realizes, a rumbling growl stuck at the base of his throat. He covers it with a cough, turns and stutter-steps to tug his jersey from his stall and up over his head. 

It’s faint, a pre-heat saturated kind of scent, but Jordan’s -- he’s never had an omega in the locker room and he doesn’t think JT would be too thrilled if Jordan started going all knot-headed.

But JT’s ready, half the guys are ready. Jordan’s gotta get his shit together, get his head in the game, and get out into the tunnel with everyone else.

Hickey tosses his tape at Jordan, who catches it without thought.

Mostly because he _can’t_ think, not with JT standing at the threshold of the locker room, ready to go once Coach Weight announces tonight’s lines, smelling the way he does. He’s reduced to instinct.

“Believe it or not,” Hickey says once he’s resurfaced from the tangle of his jersey, “It gets easier.”

Jordan takes a deep breath, through his fucking _mouth_ , and prays that his buddy’s right.

 

*~*~*~*

 

It’s a blur, but Jordan makes it through the warm-up, through the game, and off the ice before he lets it roll through him, the remnants of adrenaline, the testosterone, the _want_. 

He doesn’t know how it happens, but he -- he hears JT’s voice and it’s so thready with need already that Jordan, for the first time in his entire fucking life, wishes he’d been born a beta so he didn’t have to deal with the all the bullshit that comes along with sub-gender dynamics. He doesn’t _want_ to feel the helpless, uncontrollable base urges that lead most alphas around by the dick like a leashed collar, but, hey, here he is. He can scent the interest.

Growling, like an idiot, because JT’s nearby and so is another alpha -- no, he has a name. He has a name and it’s Scott Mayfield and he’s a six-four fucking defensemen, so Jordan really needs to find some fucking zen.

Which is what Cal’s there for, a hand on his shoulder, grounding him in that way that only betas know how.

“You good, man?” he asks, eyes huge and brown and sincere.

If Jordan had half the mind, he’d be able to settle himself in a comment on Cal’s shitty handlebar mustache, but instead all he can get out is another low snarl that burbles out of his chest, steady as a stream.

“Yeah, okay,” Cal says, looking over Jordan’s shoulder, “I’ve got you, Ebs.”

 

*~*~*~*

 

Jordan doesn’t calm down until long after JT’s dressed and out of the building, and by then it’s just him and Cal who’s looking at him like he’s a fucking idiot.

Probably because he _is_.

“You oughta talk to him, bud,” is all Cal says, sweat dried, reeking from the game, not the mess of pheromones Jordan’s got going for him. He claps Jordan’s shoulder, finally heads to the showers now that Jordan’s more or less under control.

“You smell like ass,” Jordan calls after him, grabbing his towel before he trails after Cal, grinning at the way his laughter echoes off the tiles. 

 

*~*~*~*

 

To be fair, Jordan doesn’t _intend_ to do anything. Despite what Cal thinks, Jordan’s not the alpha-omega endgame true-love bullshit type of guy. He’s not going to talk to JT about how they should see if they’re a match, if he can help him through his heats, if there’s potential for _more_ , blah blah blah because he’s never bought into that load of crap.

Just because JT’s an omega, it doesn’t even mean he wants an alpha, let alone _Jordan_ as his alpha.

But JT’s there, cloying as fucking ever even after his heat-leave, standing outside of the locker room like he’s waiting for someone.

Because he is. Waiting for someone.

Waiting for _Jordan_.

(There’s a reason alphas are called knot-heads.)

“Hey, man,” Jordan forces himself to say, breathing through his mouth so that he doesn’t do something gross, like try to suck in a lungful of JT’s scent. He knows it makes him look dumb, puts his gap-teeth on display. “What’s up?”

JT doesn’t say anything, not at first. He blinks, leans in, and takes a huge breath in through his nose as if he was never told that that was kind of rude.

“You still want to knot me,” JT says, very matter-of-factly.

Jordan flushes, trapping an embarrassed growl behind his teeth. “Uh, what the fuck, Tavares?”

“Sorry,” JT says, as if he just realized. And -- if the blown pupils are to be believed, maybe that’s the case. “Um. I didn’t mean to just, come out and say that. I just -- I wanted to see if you’d like to maybe…”

Technically, Jordan doesn’t have to say anything. He could just let his scent do the talking. But...that’s also kind of rude. Jordan clears his throat, breathes out a quick, desperate, “ _Yes_ ,” and tilts his head back so that JT can come stick his face into the crook of Jordan’s neck, initiate the courting bond.

The blunt edges of JT’s teeth -- some real, some fake -- press into Jordan’s scent gland and he smells himself in a way that he’s only ever been able to when he’s come back to the house for the first time after rut. The juniper-apples-vanilla that smells nothing like the way an alpha really should floods the area between them; Jordan’s not expecting the way John just melts into his chest, whining. 

Jordan’s hands settle on JT’s hips, trying to push him back, put a little bit of space between them. Because apparently they’re going to do this with some modicum of propriety.

The bite steals Jordan’s breath, but he’s able to pat at JT’s hip in a, “hey, I’m tapping out,” motion that has JT whining and backing away. “Whoa, whoa, hey,” he says aloud, and then, more formally, “I accept.”

JT lets out a breath, says, “Sorry.” A blush crests his cheekbones.

Jordan’s growl gets caught in his throat. “C’mere,” he says, softly so it’s not quite an order. 

Regardless, JT obeys. He tilts his chin back and bares his throat, easy as anything. 

Jordan bites, chest rumbling when he hears John’s gasp and it’s -- it’s like something slots into place, his brain going from “????” to “!!!!” in less the space of a second. He doesn’t say anything as cliche as, “ _Mine_ ,” when he pulls back, but he’s definitely thinking it and floods with pleasure at the way it’s mirrored in John’s face.

“Good,” JT says. His tone’s casual in a way that belies his flushed cheeks.“Now maybe you can focus.”

“Oh, what the fuck,” Jordan says, laughing as he watches JT’s retreating back. 

He shakes his head and follows.

 

*~*~*~*

 

JT was right, is the thing. Jordan’s less growly, finally able to see and hear and smell things other than John because the peripheral awareness is more than enough, tinged now with the promise of possession and more and later. He gets through practice and actually remembers it afterwards, too. 

 

*~*~*~*

 

“You coming or not?”

Jordan knows it’s John, but he still turns his head to look because his hair looks soft when he’s fresh out of the shower. He nods, says, “Mine or yours?” because, contrary to popular belief, he’s a modern alpha and believes in equality.

John hums, shifts his bag on his hip. “I don’t know if you’ll be able to handle mine just yet. Let’s go to yours.”

And, well. Jordan might be the alpha, but John’s the captain.

Jordan gets in his truck and leads the way.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Jordan doesn’t think twice about letting John inside first, but he really isn’t prepared for the rightness of the sight of John looking around at his living area -- the potted plants, the glass coffee table, the fluffed up rug, and the oversized sectional -- with the faintest grin in place. He probably doesn’t even know he’s smiling.

“Do I pass inspection?” Jordan asks, mostly to fill the silence.

John ignores him, heads into the kitchen and then circles through the dining area and disappears up the stairs while Jordan busies himself stowing his bag in the hall closet, tugging off his shoes; he scents the air for John’s location.

He shouldn’t be surprised that John’s lying in the middle of his bunched up sheets, but he is.

Sometimes, they all play up to their stereotypes; this is definitely one that Jordan doesn’t mind.

“You’re in my bed,” he points out.

John’s non-verbal, rumbling out this purr that sounds so contented that Jordan doesn’t even mind the lack of response. He turns to look at Jordan when he nears, pupils shot to hell as he rolls onto his belly, rubbing his throat against Jordan’s pillows. Jordan’s breath hitches at the sight -- like, yes, John’s basically in “mount me” position, but it’s the fact that he’s smearing his scent into Jordan’s sheets that really does it for him. 

“You’re in my _bed_ ,” Jordan repeats, and -- he doesn’t realize he does it, but he’s on the bed and covering John between one heartbeat and the next. He pins him, rubs his throat and his cheeks and his chest against John’s back just to hear him whimper.

“Yeah,” John manages. He shudders out a sigh. “Alright, up, _up_.”

Jordan’s up and on his feet. “What?”

“We’re not gonna -- I want to do this _right_ ,” John insists, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You’re --” He cuts himself off with a deep breath. “Gimme like, five more minutes to scent?”

Jordan nods, going back downstairs to gather his wits with his face in the fridge. He grabs a pair of beers when he hears John coming down, trying not to creep on the way he’s hard in his pants and a little wobbly like they’d just done bag skates. He offers out a beer, preens when John takes it, their fingers brushing.

He sits at Jordan’s kitchen table, heedless of invitation, like his knees were going to give out. 

“You look high as fuck,” Jordan points out.

“Pheromones,” John replies, waving a hand. “So.”

“ _So_ ,” Jordan repeats. “Does being this cliche grate on you too, or is it just me?”

Sighing, John draws another pull from his beer and settles more firmly into the dining room chair. “It’s a stereotype for a reason,” he eventually says. “Outside of the hockey world, no one will care. We’ll just be any other hetero-dynamic couple.”

Jordan feels his cheeks go hot. “But if I’d been able to —”

“Doesn’t matter,” John says firmly. “It’s not like I was any better.”

And — Jordan hadn’t been with it enough to notice. 

“Besides,” John continues, heedless of Jordan’s little moment, “The guys? They’re not wrong. So, why not see if we work, ya know?”

“Fair.”

“Who knows,” John says, a challenging glint in his eyes, “maybe I’ll be the incentive you need to start scoring some goals.”

“ _Ouch_ ,” Jordan says, laughing, “The omega plays dirty.”

Jordan sends John packing with a couple of sleep shirts from his laundry basket and a pair of quick, chaste kisses.

 

*~*~*~*

 

They don’t really change their routines or anything. Jordan still sits with Hickey on the plane and gets pretentious beers with Cal and plays guitar in his spare time. JT’s still quiet, intense, focused, and doesn’t spare a glance for Jordan unless they’re on the ice or they’re alone together. 

No one gives them shit about the courting bond, the way they smell a little bit like one another now. In fact, Jordan would say it feels like the entire team has taken a collective breath of fresh air for the first time since he’d arrived in the pre-season.

He hadn’t realized he’d thrown the team dynamics _that_ much.

 

*~*~*~*

 

“Does it bother you?”

“Does what bother me?”

Jordan sighs, shifting so that he can better reach JT’s scruff. He grabs it, relishing in the way JT goes a little dumb and completely immobile until Jordan drags him nearer just so he can rub his jaw along JT’s cheek. He relaxes his hold, fingers curling into the short hair at the base of John’s skull instead; John purrs.

“I know I’m not -- like, the typical alpha,” Jordan explains after a deep breath. He tucks John’s head beneath his chin, keeps playing with his hair to soothe himself, keep his hands busy.

Jordan’s not _small_ , but he’s smaller than John. He’s not overly aggressive, just a little bit petty and sarcastic, preferring quick jabs to stupid posturing or posting shit all over Twitter like half the guys in the league. 

He chirps, but doesn’t fight. He growls, but it’s usually not in a threatening way because he’s grown up in locker rooms with that shit, okay, and it’s nothing but annoying. It gets in the way of hockey and he hates it. For the most part, Jordan kind of hates his instincts and he does his best to keep them stowed. Or...he _did_ , up until he got traded to the Islanders and got confronted with the grossly delicious scent of one John Tavares on the daily.

“Honestly,” John says after a minute, voice rumbling low, “I probably wouldn’t’ve wanted you if you were.”

Jordan blinks. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” John assures him, “I don’t really… _do_ alphas.” He shrugs and Jordan feels it. “Or, I didn’t.”

“Why?” Jordan has to ask.

Again, he feels John shrug, then his fingers scrape down Jordan’s back. “All the ones that tried to pursue me in the past were...overbearing.”

Jordan gets it. He’s never clicked well with most omegas, has typically gone for betas during his rut. 

“So, no,”John says, “I don’t mind it at all.” He shifts away, up and out of the makeshift nest Jordan made out of pillows and blankets and worn clothes on his bed, stretching with his arms above his head so that the lowest part of his belly is bared. “Enough of the cuddling, though, I’m starving. Can we eat now?” And he asks it, but it’s not a question, because he’s already heading out of the bedroom.

Jordan snorts a laugh, wallows in the sheets for a couple more beats until he scents John’s annoyance from all the way in the kitchen.

“Why don’t you have any food?” is faint but audible.

“Because my groceries aren’t getting delivered ‘til tonight, ya brat,” Jordan says, grinning when John glares. He sidles up close, wrapping himself around John until he can lean up and chomp on his bond bite. “Take out okay?”

John huffs, still sour with annoyance but mellowing as the hormones inundate his system. “I guess,” he concedes, hands going into Jordan’s hair.

 

*~*~*~*

 

“When’s your next rut?” John asks, out of the blue when they’re en route to Jordan’s house after practice.

Jordan swears under his breath, going hot. “Jesus, Johnny.” He tries to relax his white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. _Tries._

“What?” John asks, blinking, confused. He sniffs at the air, probably catching the mixture of embarrassment and arousal and surprise Jordan knows he’s giving off. “I just wanted to know if we were going to sync up or not.”

“Well, when’s your next heat?” Jordan retorts.

And, yeah, there he goes, _getting_ it. “Okay, fine,” John asks, shifting in the passenger seat and crossing his arms over his chest. “But we’re courting. And I don’t think it’s too soon to start talking about it, because I’m…” He huffs a sigh and when Jordan glances at him, his face is pink. “I think I’m like two weeks out.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” Jordan says, nodding. “I’m pretty sure that’s in line with my rut, but either way,” he says, fixing John with a stare. “We’re going to sync.”

John doesn’t say anything at that, but when Jordan looks over at his reflection in the glass, there’s a tiny, pleased smile on John’s face.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Jordan’s out with Cal and Seids and Barzy and Beau, getting his fill of shitty IPAs at some hipster bar when he gets a text from JT that just says, “Come over.” Two seconds later, there’s a pin dropped to him and he’s saying, “Gotta head out, fellas,” over the din of the bar. They hoot and holler, because of course he and John have been reeking of pheromones lately, and he knows he just shot off a heady dose of alpha arousal.

He rolls his eyes, sets up a Lyft, and tries to keep his cool in the tiny car. Luckily, the guy’s a beta and doesn’t pay Jordan any mind when he rolls down the window to hang his head out like a fucking dog. The sharp night air does wonders to cool him down and by the time he makes it out to John’s, Jordan’s only a little jittery with nerves.

John buzzes him in and he barely gets out a, “Hey,” or two steps in the door before John whines and starts rubbing up on him like a cat, rubbing his stubbly cheeks against Jordan’s entire face. 

“Hi, yeah, I’m great, I was having beers with some of the guys, but it’s nice to see you too --”

“Shut up,” John says, using his size to hold Jordan against the door. “I’m fucking --” His next word dissolves into a purr.

Jordan’s okay with it, honestly, but John still doesn’t smell like heat so this behavior is a little out of left field. Not that he’s complaining, of course. It’s just a little bit confusing, and maybe that’s the hormones talking, but luckily John picks up on Jordan’s surprise.

“We have to sync,” John’s eventually able to say, pulling back to look at Jordan’s face with half-lidded eyes. Lifting a hand to cradle Jordan’s chin, he has the gall to look apologetic. “I gave you stubble burn. Sorry.”

Shrugging, Jordan says, “It’s fine,” because it is, and then says, “Hey, show me around?” because he’s _polite_ unlike _someone_ who just stalked around Jordan’s like he owned the place.

John grips Jordan’s wrist and drags him through the house -- tugging harder when Jordan gets distracted by pictures hanging in the hall -- until they end up in the master bedroom. Everything’s neat apart from the bed; Jordan’s never seen so many pillows in his goddamn life, strewn all over the bed around a tiny body-size space right in the center.

“Cute nest,” Jordan comments.

Even though he shoves at Jordan’s arm, John blushes and says, “Thanks,” with a grin that crinkles his eyes up at the corners. He sits on the edge of the bed, half-on one of the millions of pillows, and tugs at Jordan’s belt loops until he’s standing between John’s legs. “Come here,” John says.

A little scent-drunk and definitely still beer-buzzed, Jordan dopily grins back and says, “Hey,” as he rucks up John’s hair with both hands. He leans and leans until John collapses back on the bed, laughing and taking the brunt of Jordan’s weight, arms wrapped around his back. Jordan kisses him, slow and easy and soft, until John’s whining and the scent of arousal permeates the air around them. He’s not expecting anything to come of it, of course, not until John’s heat, but John’s whining into Jordan’s open-mouthed kisses and Jordan can’t help but press John down a little more securely into the nest.

“Still no heat?” Jordan asks, pulling back to rub his throat against John’s jaw.

John groans, scent going sour with frustration. “No,” he says, “Not or a couple more days, but -- fuck, I just want it to happen already.” He leans back, hands pushing Jordan’s out of his hair. He fucks up his hair and then smooths it back into place, sighing at the ceiling. “I’m having, like. Stereotypical sluttiness.”

“It’s not --” Jordan can’t stop the growl, but he clears his throat afterwards, annoyed that he couldn’t. “So what? There’s nothing wrong with wanting sex.”

“I _know_ ,” John says, a little bit like he’s trying to convince himself, “I know that. Rationally, I do. But I was raised Catholic, Jordan, and the guilt doesn’t just go away.” He tugs until Jordan’s lying in the indention, settling his head in the crook of Jordan’s neck once he has him exactly where he wants him. “Will you stay?”

Jordan’s throat catches on a growl again and he rolls his eyes at himself. “Of course I’ll stay.”

John huffs a warm breath against Jordan’s skin. “I mean, like -- this whole week. Will you stay ‘til my heat’s over?”

And, “Oh,” that’s -- that could be a long time to be together and...Jordan’s been addicted to John’s scent since day one, but he’s more than a little excited to get the chance to see the way John lives his life, goes about his day-to-day tasks and training. He wonders if John talks on the phone to his family a lot, because he talks to the guys on the team, but he’s really only tight with Anders and a couple of the others.

_And me_ , Jordan thinks, surprised.

“Yeah,” he eventually answers, “Of course, babe.”

“...”

“Honey? Sweetheart? Pumpkin?”

John laughs, squeezing at Jordan’s ribs. “ _Stop._ ”

His scent’s getting sweeter, though, so Jordan doesn’t: “Poptart. Sweet puddin’ pop.”

The laughs get louder, deeper, like John can’t really control it.

“Okay, fine, fine,” Jordan says, grinning into John’s hair. “But mark my words, I’ll find a pet name you like, omega.”

Breath hitching, John goes stiff as though Jordan’d grabbed him by the back of the neck and then he squirms, the scent of slick blossoming up around them.

“ _Oh_ , that hit the spot, eh?” Jordan feels his nostrils flare, his vision sharpen. “God, you smell so fucking _good_ , Johnny.”

“Bite me,” John grits out, and then, “Please, do it, c’mon.”

And Jordan does, because John asked as politely as the pushy omega is capable of, setting his teeth against the courting bond mark with ease. John groans like he’s been gut-punched and scrabbles at Jordan’s back, melting into the bed.

“ _God_ ,” John gasps sharply, screeching out a whine when Jordan pulls back to look at his face. He hurries on to say, “Feels good, feels good,” and yanks Jordan back down for another kiss.

Jordan uses the distraction to lift a hand, scrape a finger down the length of the bite just to grin into the kiss when it makes John shudder.

This still isn’t heat, not yet, but it’s definitely set things into motion and Jordan’s more than happy to key John up to the point of getting himself banished to the living room while John gets himself off. Jordan could probably do the same, but he’s mostly caught up in the burning pride that’s coursing through him at the pheromones seeping all the way downstairs; his omega’s happy with him, if a little sexually frustrated.

He’s watching a episode of _Life Below Zero_ when John makes a reappearance.

John has no qualms about making room for himself between Jordan and the back of the couch, shoving his face into the back of Jordan’s neck, rumbling out a purr when he wraps an arm around Jordan’s middle.

“You good?” Jordan asks, half-keeping an eye on Agnes and Tinmiaq chasing a wounded caribou across the Arctic tundra.

Purring louder, John hooks his chin around Jordan’s shoulder, squeezing him tighter around the middle.

Jordan laughs, because it tickles. “Yeah, okay.”

They fall asleep on the couch, wake up in the middle of the night to eat a snack and use the bathroom, then John drags Jordan back up to his bedroom, grinning softly like he can’t believe Jordan’s still here.

Without saying a word, Jordan tugs John down into the nest and spoons up behind him.

 

*~*~*~*

 

“You like eggs?” Jordan asks between kisses.

John’s a puddle in the middle of his nest, high as fuck on Jordan’s scent mingling with his own in a heady stew of pheromones. “Mmm?” is all he’s able to get out in an inhalation break between purrs.

“Gonna make breakfast for you,” Jordan explains, pressing another kiss to John’s swollen lower lip. “Gonna feed you,” he says, giving John another and then another after, “Gonna take real good care of my omega.”

John makes a high noise and trembles, color high on his cheeks and throat.

“Yeah?” Jordan scrapes his teeth down John’s jawline until he can nibble on the courting bond. “Can make us some omelets, maybe. You can sit on my lap -- think you’d want that, omega?”

Nodding, John clutches a little tighter and then goes completely and totally lax, lapsing into the most content purrs that Jordan’s ever heard from him --

And then the scent hits.

Jordan growls, loud and uncontrollable; he made John come. From talking and kissing, Jordan made John _come_.

Like, yeah, a lot of that was probably also thanks to the rush of hormones flowing between them, but Jordan feels like he can take a least half the credit on that. 

But then it spikes, sweetens --

And that makes a lot more sense. 

Pre-heat sweetness blossoms up around them and Jordan feels his heartbeat pound in his throat, just under his bond bite. He’s growling, he thinks, barely able to focus around the languid way John’s rubbing his face under Jordan’s chin and against his neck. The purrs rumble between them and Jordan says, “It’ll be soon, eh? _God,_ you smell -- it’s so good, Johnny.”

He’ll probably follow suit and go into rut just as soon as the heat truly settles in, but -- he can taste it coming.

“Hey, hey,” he says, smoothing a hand down John’s back, “We need to make some phone calls, babe.”

John’s nose wrinkles.

“Sweetie. Sugar. Sunshine.”

John barks out a syrupy laugh, muzzy from hormones. “ _Stop_.”

Jordan can’t help his smirk. He shifts up and off of John, adjusts himself in his pants, and says, “I’ll start a bath for you if you call management.”

Mulling it over, John lazily rolls to move off the bed; a few pillows fall to the floor. “Sweeten the deal with omelets.”

“Okay. _And_ I’ll make omelets.”

“And you’ll feed me?” John asks sweetly, coming closer to nuzzle at Jordan’s collarbone.

Jordan turns, wrapping his arms around John’s middle. “ _And_ I’ll feed you.”

“Okay,” John relents. He sighs. “I’ll call management.”

It’s probably a conversation they’ll have to go through a few times -- alpha versus captain and who takes responsibility when -- but Jordan finds that he’s… _excited_ about it. They can play rock-paper-scissors if necessary, but he also really likes that John’s not passive, not stereotypically submissive. He likes that John’ll push back when given a suggestion or a gentle order.

He’s still mulling over it all, basking in the influx of hormones and waiting for the tap to run as hot as he thinks is comfortable when John reappears.

Jordan meets his eyes in the mirror, takes in the flush along his nose and cheeks, the way his eyes have gone a touch wild. He watches John take a deep breath and then catches sight of his own grin.

“Hey,” Jordan says softly. “Wanna tell me if this is warm enough?”

He sees the tiny chirp of a purr before he hears it, muffled beneath the dull roar of the faucet. 

“You have any bubbles?” Jordan asks. He rolls his eyes at John’s dubious look and goes on: “Bath salts? A bath bomb? Nothing?! Really? Wow.” He tries not to judge -- because, sure, John’s never had an alpha really _pamper_ him, but -- Jordan’s even talked to plenty of omegas who simply do it for themselves. “Remind me to take you shopping after your heat. We’re going to fix that.”

John’s scent goes all spicy-sweet with pleasure; Jordan lets himself pull a deep lungful.

By some unspoken agreement, Jordan stays while John undresses and steps in, fussing with the towels to keep from ogling the newly bared skin. 

Until John gives him the okay, Jordan’s going to keep his hands and eyes to himself. As difficult as that may be. Because, _wow_ , does he want. Nose, not so much, but Jordan’s pretty sure if John was embarrassed about the come-sticky boxers, then he would’ve taken them straight to the laundry room. So, yeah, Jordan’s going to let himself get a little high on that potent scent. 

Once Jordan hears the quiet splash of the water finally settle, John finally speaks: “You can turn back around now.”

A little too sincerely, Jordan says, “Thank you,” and bends to kneel beside the tub. John’s looking right at him, eyes more black than blue and Jordan wonders if they have minutes rather than hours. They should definitely eat a good meal before they get into the full swing of things, but for now, Jordan’s just happy that John’s okay with him sticking close while he gets clean. 

(Jordan’s not sure he’d be able to stay away.)

“You’re growling,” John points out. 

Jordan narrows his eyes at him. “Yeah,” he says, “I do that sometimes.”

John just rolls his eyes. 

“Hazards of being an alpha, I guess.”

“That’s not --” John grunts an annoyed sound. “You smell off. I just...wanted to know what you were thinking about.”

Shrugging, Jordan says, “Probably just pre-rut. I was thinking about the last time.” He lifts a hand, runs his knuckles lightly down the squared line of John’s jaw. “I...Cal basically had to keep me restrained so I didn’t try to maul you on your way out of the rink.”

John smiles that tiny, pleased smile again and Jordan’s whole entire chest aches just looking at it.

“You don’t have to stay away this time,” John says, covering Jordan’s hand with his own. He squeezes it, lets it fall into the water so he can comfortably twine their fingers. “Or hold back.”

Jordan lets his forehead drop down to rest on the edge of the tub. He has to just breathe for a second, half in relief and half in arousal. 

He shouldn’t already be thinking, _but what about the next time_ ; he is anyways.

There’s a quiet slosh of water and then John’s asking, “You okay?” He smells sweetly concerned, edging on worry. A damp hand curls around the back of Jordan’s neck; he sighs. “I -- my heats are usually pretty mild. I’ll -- if anything feels off or wrong, we can probably stop without any trouble.”

Jordan chirps a laugh, unable to help himself. He shouldn’t need to be consoled by his omega. “I just want to make it good for you, Johnny. I --” He cuts himself off, swallowing down the words he doesn’t know if he should say.

John presses a kiss to Jordan’s temple, urging him to finally look up. 

“I just want you to keep wanting me.”

It’s desperate, embarrassing, but no less true. Jordan doesn’t immediately regret saying it, probably only because John’s scent goes hard on the cinnamon and Jordan’s pretty sure that’s a good thing. (It’s almost an echo of John’s first goal of the season, the way he’d pumped his fist and then skated down the line for fist bumps, reeking with unbridled joy.)

“You _like_ me,” John says. His grin goes wonky, a little dopey the way Jordan’s only seen it look when John’s in the presence of puppies or small children. “You want to _keep_ me.”

Jordan rolls his eyes to bely the heady relief suffusing him. “Yeah,” he says, “You’re alright, I guess.”

 

*~*~*~*

 

The omelets don’t take Jordan long to finagle since John’s groceries were delivered the day before. There are two ready and steaming, waiting alongside a small pile of crispy bacon and a pair of orange juice glasses that were John’s doing. (“My arms feel like noodles, Jordan. I can’t cook like this,” John had said, taking a break from the constant purring. He’d stayed close throughout the affair, nuzzling against the back of Jordan’s neck like his life depended on it.)

“You ready?” Jordan asks.

“I’m fucking starving, come on,” John says, ushering Jordan towards the table.

John shoves Jordan into sitting, apparently done being patient.

Laughing, Jordan sprawls, waits for John to pick up the fork before he clambers into Jordan’s lap, ready to be doted on. “Ready?” Jordan asks.

Rolling his eyes, John holds the fork out for Jordan to take. Sitting like this, Jordan has to strain a bit to cut the omelets into bite-sized pieces, wrapped as he is around John who’s huge and clinging in his lap, but Jordan wouldn’t trade it for the world. (Maybe for a Stanley Cup or two, but only if he’s able to win them with John by his side.)

He takes a steaming bit of egg and cheese and green peppers and onions, lifts it to John’s lips and waits, watching as John takes the bite, sinking more heavily into Jordan’s embrace when he chews and swallows. It’s maybe a little too warm, but John doesn’t complain.

“Good?” Jordan asks. He’d probably know if John didn’t like it, because John’s not shy, but it’s a good way to keep John in the present, to keep him from purring so he doesn't choke. “Not too hot?”

John shakes his head. His voice is a little rough when he says, “It’s good. Could use some peppers, though. Piri-piri, maybe.”

Jordan sighs, because of _course_ John wants to sear off his taste buds. “Well, I don’t know about you but I’d rather keep my innards _inside_ my body,” he says, lifting another forkful for John to take. “Where they belong. But if you need some heat, by all means, this will be your omelet and that one will be mine.”

Scrambling down from Jordan’s lap, John goes to grab a pepper from one of the bowls on his counter, a knife and a cutting board. While he’s busy cutting it up, Jordan shoves basically half of the other omelet in his mouth. He’s ravenous, he realizes, which means his rut’s probably closer than he’d thought.

By the time John turns back around, Jordan’s almost finished with his own omelet. It isn’t strictly the best alpha protocol, but Jordan says, “Sorry. Pre-rut,” and John just rolls his eyes, smiling. 

He cocks an eyebrow, replies, “Well, you do reek a little more than usual,” as if that’s something completely _normal_ to say in response. He settles back into Jordan’s lap, sprinkling the sliced peppers onto the mostly uneaten omelet before he turns his attention back to Jordan. “Feed me, alpha.”

Jordan shivers, completely unable to help it when he gives a little growl and scrapes his teeth down John’s shoulder. “ _Brat._ ”

The rest of their meal goes off without a hitch and the few kisses they share on the couch afterwards make Jordan’s lips tingle.

They’re just lounging there afterwards in a hazy miasma of pheromones with HGTV on in the background when John says, “What if my heat starts in the middle of the night?”

Jordan keeps running his fingers through the hair above John’s ear. “Then your heat starts in the middle of the night.”

“No,” John huffs, propping his chin on Jordan’s chest, “I _mean_...do you want me to wake you up?”

“As opposed to…?” Jordan quirks a brow, running through several possibilities all at once; he goes hot under the collar. 

John gives a half-shrug, made difficult by the way he’s sprawled all over Jordan. “Starting without you,” he eventually says, voice quiet as though that’s something to be ashamed of or something. “I don’t know.”

Huffing a sigh, Jordan slowly wraps his hand around the back of John’s neck, just holding it there without any pressure. “I thought the whole point of this was to spend your heat together,” he points out. “But...if by ‘starting without me’ you mean me waking up balls-deep, I can’t say I’d object.”

Groaning, John buries his face in Jordan’s t-shirt. “That’s…explicit.”

“I mean, I’m pretty sure I’d be into it,” Jordan elaborates. “But if you mean making yourself --” He breaks off into a growl, immediately embarrassed and annoyed at himself. He clears his throat, tries again. “I’d rather help out? Unless you want to jack off all over me, like, that’s fine, I guess.”

John says, “Oh, my god,” and squeezes tightly around Jordan’s middle.

Jordan shrugs. “I’m just saying.” Actually, he’s going a little hard just thinking about it; there’s a hazy imagine in his mind’s eye of John straddling his waist, stripping his cock and coming all over Jordan’s chest and belly and dick, rubbing in the mess so he _reeks_ of John. He’d like it -- without question -- even if that’s not very alpha of him.

“You’re more than ‘just saying,’” John points out, shifting so that Jordan’s half-chub isn’t stabbing him in the stomach. “So,” he says, clearing his throat, sounding a little more formal, “I have your permission to wake you up?”

It takes a lot of effort to keep from rolling his eyes. Instead, Jordan squeezes at John’s scruff and hauls him up so that he can rub his throat over John’s cheeks. “Yes, omega, you have my permission.”

A rumbling purr bursts out of John’s chest, so loud and pleased that Jordan immediately smiles, loosening his grip so that John can move more freely; which is awesome, because John shuffles up so that he can rub his throat all over Jordan’s face, dosing him up on happy omega hormones. It rumbles on even well after John’s stopped scenting Jordan, curled up against his chest.

 

*~*~*~*

 

John’s heat doesn’t start during the middle of the night. 

But Jordan’s rut does.

He wakes up, sweaty and agitated, growling at the fact that John’s an arm’s length away. They’d definitely fallen asleep cuddled up together in the center of John’s nest, but now there are pillows separating them and Jordan’s -- he’s tossing pillows this way and that until he can plaster himself up against John’s back.

John shifts and Jordan squeezes, growling louder. 

It’s loud enough to wake John, because he mumbles, “The fuck?” and tries to turn over. Jordan doesn’t let him, of course, baring his teeth and pressing them to the back of John’s neck when he keeps struggling. It’s not quite the same effect as grabbing an omega by the scruff, but it does make him relax enough to purr them both to sleep.

The second time he wakes, Jordan’s still a little murky-headed and disgruntled, but at least now he can recognize the fact that he’s in rut.

“Oh, good,” John says, “You’re awake. Let me up; I need the bathroom.”

It takes a few seconds for the words to register, and when they finally do, Jordan releases him. John knocks the few remaining pillows that make up his nest onto the floor in his haste to scurry to the bathroom, leaving Jordan to take in the detritus in his wake. The sheets are pulled up, curling towards him and -- honestly, they reek. Jordan’s rut is here in full force.

He doesn’t realize he’s growling again until he’s already up and on his feet, trying to get into the bathroom. But he...can’t? 

John’s saying words through the door but Jordan can’t actually make them out, just the annoyance in his tone and, well -- 

Jordan probably wouldn’t want someone standing outside of the bathroom first thing in the morning either. 

Okay.

_Okay_. He should...If John’s heat still hasn’t hit then he should maybe move the snacks they’d prepped upstairs. John’s bound to have a cooler somewhere, right? Maybe in the hall closet.

Jordan goes back and forth a few times, waffling on whether he should let John know what he’s doing, or maybe waiting for him to come out, but then tells himself, “Stop being such a fucking knot-head already,” and then goes downstairs. 

Only. Everything smells so good? But...also nothing like him and that’s -- that’s not right. Not when he’s already staked his claim and his mate’s upstairs and -- “No,” Jordan says aloud, “Focus, dumbass.” He winds through the first level of the house, rummaging through the closets until he finally finds a cooler tucked in with a couple of tents and some fishing gear. It doesn’t _smell_ like actual fish, though, but Jordan takes it into the kitchen to wash it anyways.

That’s where John finds him.

Violently scrubbing out a cooler at the kitchen sink.

“Um,” he says, and there’s a smile in his voice, “You okay, bud?”

Jordan doesn’t growl, thinks he might be able to talk but doesn’t know if he trusts his own voice. He clears his throat a couple of times, says, “Yeah,” and then motions for John to hand him the towel hanging on the oven door. He gives the cooler one last rinse and then dries it off.

“Oh,” John says, “Well, aren’t you a thoughtful alpha?”

His words and the syrupy tone make Jordan’s chest puff up and he -- he feels so dumb, but John’s playing right into it and it’s exactly what he needs right now. Otherwise he’d be pacing holes in the carpet and pissing all over John’s front door to warn away other alphas, his rut is hitting him _that fucking hard_. It’s embarrassing.

John helps him load the cooler full of sports drinks and protein bars and fruits they cut up the previous afternoon. Jordan probably won’t be able to eat until after his rut’s run its course, but he’ll be more than happy to hand-feed John some strawberries when he’s in a rest period between heat waves. 

Just thinking about it has Jordan pulling John close, rubbing some rank-ass alpha pheromones all over the poor guy’s face.

But instead of being annoyed or put-off, John just lets himself be submitted to it, even going so far as to wrap his arms around Jordan’s middle, tilting his head back to bare his throat. Jordan zeroes in on the bond bite and decides that, yeah, it could use a little more color.

John inhales shakily, voice cracking on a, “Fuck,” that makes Jordan growl and bite down harder. “Okay, okay, okay,” he says, threaded through with a whimper until Jordan lets his jaw go lax, licking at the purpling skin until he’s satisfied that no one can look at that shit and mistake it for anything other than what it is. “Christ, I’m in for it, eh?”

Jordan’s -- god, he’s annoyed at himself, but, “Yeah. Sorry.”

“I don’t mind,” John says with a shrug. His cheeks are pink and his eyes are a bit hazy.

Maybe he really doesn’t. 

Together, they finish loading up the cooler, covering everything in the little bit of ice they can coax out of John’s freezer. They lug it upstairs and -- oh, _jesus_. Jordan’s rumbling a growl before he can stop himself, barely able to finish getting the cooler inside John’s bedroom before he’s dragging him down into the bed’s fresh sheets and re-done mountain of pillows. 

John’s laughing, this high, pealing thing, and rubbing his stubbly face all over Jordan’s neck and chest. “Knew you’d get pissy about that,” he says, rolling them over so that he can peel off Jordan’s shirt to better get at his skin. “You’ve already torn up my house, rubbed your scent into every nook and cranny downstairs. Uh huh, yeah, I noticed.” He grins and bites at Jordan’s pectoral muscles. “You used half the house as a back-scratching post. I can smell you _everywhere_.” He bites lower, tonguing at the divots between Jordan’s abs. “You stink, Jordan.”

Jordan, a bit nonsensically, says, “I’ll show you stink,” and rolls them back over, dislodging a few of the pillows. He ignores John’s plaintive little mewl and bites a few kisses onto John’s lips and cheeks and chin.

John lets him for a while, because he has the patience of a saint, and then he’s tapping at Jordan’s hip, making him get up so that he can fix the nest once again. 

He strips off his shirt, using it to wipe the sweat from his forehead once he’s finished and tosses it at Jordan who -- and, honestly, if he wasn’t expecting Jordan to immediately shove it in his face and groan, then Jordan doesn’t know what to say. “Think my heat’s coming on,” John says, panting a little bit, and -- 

Jordan growls, letting the t-shirt fall between some pillows as he vaults out of the bed to pin John against the wall. 

John’s whimpering, panting, and when Jordan shoves his face into John’s neck to get at his scent glands, he thinks, viciously, “ _Good_.”

They’re a flurry of movements, John whining high in his throat as Jordan ruts their hips together and sucks on his tongue; John’s hands yank and tug at Jordan’s hair, trying to move him this way and that, to no avail because Jordan’s a rock, he’s so fucking steadfast right now that not even a hurricane could keep him from getting at John’s mouth. He kisses and ruts, thinking, “ _Finally_ ,” and growls because he’s allowed to.

“C’mon, alpha, please,” John’s saying, squirming as much as he can in Jordan’s bruising grip, “Take me to bed.”

A grumbled, “Fuck,” is all Jordan’s capable of saying, already feeling the threat of his knot wanting to swell. John’s actually the one to get them moving, shoving at Jordan’s shoulders until he stumbles back, and then he’s vaulting onto the bed, shimmying out of sleep pants and tossing them at Jordan’s face.

They’re soaked through in the seat and Jordan’s -- god, John’s fucking _ready_.

“Yeah,” John says, teasing, “Wanna come sample the real thing?” He twists, shifting onto his belly in an echo of that first time he came over and scented the fuck out of Jordan’s bed. His pupils are just as shot when he stares at Jordan over his shoulder and, honestly, it’s nothing short of a miracle that Jordan’s made it this long.

He growls, loud and obnoxious, stalking his way onto the bed right to where John’s lying, ass framed by pillows.

Without preamble, Jordan tugs down John’s underwear and shoves his face right up into the slick-glistening crease, sucking in a deep lungful before he dives in, tongue-first. John shouts a loud, “Oh, _fuck_ ,” that gets muffled into the pillow he’s clutching, going with it when Jordan tugs at his hips to get him up on his knees. Jordan licks and sucks and the slick just _keeps coming_ , and Jordan’s fine with that, really, because he’d gladly drown in it. No regrets.

Everything’s wet which makes it _loud_ and John’s whimpering and squirming, but Jordan’s too fucking high on these pheromones to let him budge even an inch. He growls and lunges up, covering John’s back to bite at the back of his neck, so stupidly pleased when John goes limp, scent suffused with that sharp cinnamon-joy as he starts purring, just this loud, constant rumbling that vibrates through John’s chest into Jordan’s.

Jordan goes quiet, bathing in the soothing sounds and scents John’s giving off, at least until he starts squirming again; he tightens his hold, lets out a sharp noise of warning. 

John purrs louder, canting his hips up and -- oh.

_Oh_.

Jordan can work with that. That’s perfect, actually, because all he has to do is reach down to pull his dick out of his underwear and guide it right into the tight, warm, _wet_ clutch of John’s hole. His purr gutters out for a second, but resumes right after John gasps out, “ _Yes_ , alpha.”

He’s not going to knot just from hearing that, but Jordan’s -- relieved, almost, to hear John’s enthusiastic consent, enough so that he can’t help but draw his hips back and shove right back in, fucking John in a long stroke that’s honestly more finesse than he’ll be capable of for the rest of this first go around. John’s purr starts and stops in jolts, interrupted only by gasps and those silent moments where Jordan’s fucking the sound right out of him.

And that’s -- that’s _really_ good.

John’s fucking back, begging with his body, and Jordan’s a weak, weak man. He’s begging with his mouth, too, when Jordan focuses enough to parse through the thick, wet sounds of their fucking: “Please, alpha, please -- _god_ , Jordan, come on, let me come,” on repeat, mixed in with expletives and whines and gasps. 

It’s the scent, spicy with frustration, more than anything that has Jordan reaching around John’s hip, giving him a hand to fuck into to match their rutting and -- 

John cries out, trembling as he comes, fever broken even if only for a moment.

“Fuck,” Jordan harshes out, caught on a growl, drunk on the scent of his sated omega. “Gonna knot.” 

The second the word’s out, John’s upper half is melting into the bed and he’s rumbling out an encouraging purr. Jordan fucks in a handful of times before his knot starts expanding, catching on John’s rim. It makes John whine, involuntarily, because he reaches back to grip Jordan’s forearm, keeping him close so that Jordan will keep fucking him -- so they’ll lock up tight together once Jordan starts coming --

\-- and coming and coming and coming, so much and so hard that he feels it in his _bones_ , tingling up his spine until he’s biting back down on the crook of John’s neck and shoulder, widening the bond bite. 

John sucks in a few gasping breaths and shivers again -- because he’s _coming_ again.

The sounds he’s making are round with satisfaction, rumbling through them both as they catch their breath. Plastered together as they are, with sweat and come and spit, Jordan doesn’t think he’ll ever move again. He doesn’t _want_ to move again, because this? Right here? Spread over John’s back like an overheated blanket, locked together by his knot? This is perfect. 

Why would he ever want anything else?

Jordan shudders through another pulse of orgasm when John shifts, testing the pull, and Jordan finally relents, guiding them onto their sides. 

He feels a little more clear-headed now that the first bit of his rut has been taken care of, and he’s got the wherewithal to pet at John’s side, coaxing more purrs out of him, at least until he breaks into a laugh.

“Mm?”

“You didn’t even take off your boxers, bud,” John says, high and muzzy.

Jordan smiles, rubbing the arch of his nose into John’s hair. “Couldn’t wait.”

“Clearly.” 

There’s a few beats of silence where they’re just basking in the glow, and then John’s saying, “Okay, I’m thirsty. When’s your knot gonna go down?”

Jordan snorts. “Wow, Johnny, way to make a guy feel wanted.”

“Oh, shut up,” he says fondly, “Can you reach the cooler then?”

Honestly, Jordan doesn’t even know where the fuck the thing is, so he tries sitting up, patting at John’s hip when his knot tugs. “It’s on your side.”

John groans out an, “Ugh,” and then reaches back to grasp at Jordan’s hip, saying, “Move with me,” because he’s a bossy little shit. So they shuffle over the wet spot and through the chaotic jumble of pillows until John can lean over the edge of the mattress, drag the cooler closer, pop it open and grab a water bottle.

He takes a deep drink, the plastic crinkling around the displaced air. “Fuuuck,” he says, gasping for breath once he’s finished.

“Better?” Jordan asks, snickering. “Can we enjoy the afterglow now?”

“No,” Johnny says, contrary just for the sake of being contrary, “Take off your boxers first.”

Jordan grumbles, but doesn’t actually mind, because the less fabric he has on, the more skin he can have touching Johnny. “Alright. Anything else, princess?”

Shaking his head, John stretches his arms over his head, baring the wide span of his ribs to Jordan’s hand. “Nope,” he says, “Perfect.” 

And, honestly, Jordan can’t catch a whiff of any underlying scents to bely anything other than pure contentedness, so he replies, “ _Good_ ,” and shoves his face back into John’s neck, scenting their bond mark. He hadn’t smelled the blood before, but there are a couple of little puncture marks, dotted pink and -- Jordan’ll have to clean those up once his knot goes down.

Which doesn’t actually happen for another twenty minutes, but it’s fine, because John’s just purring lazily and completely lax in Jordan’s hold. Once he’s freed, though, John whines and squirms a bit, giving off a shy, embarrassed scent when the come trickles out of his hole and --

Jordan’s got no qualms about shoving John back onto his belly, tonguing down the sweat-slick slope of his spine until he can press his face into the ample swell of John’s ass, rumbling out a pleased sound at just how mingled their scents are. He sucks at the come -- and John yelps, scent going sharp with embarrassment, but Jordan growls and holds him in place, breathes out, “Please, let me do this, Johnny,” and waits for John’s hips to finally tilt in acceptance. Jordan takes two heavy handfuls and bares John’s hole, glistening with sweat and come and slick -- and, _god_ , it’s so good.

Rimming has always been a favorite pastime of Jordan’s, but it’s always so much more intense when he’s in rut, made all the better by his partner being in heat. John’s already getting hot again, panting into the pillows as Jordan uses two fingers to coax out the rest of his come. 

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” John whimpers between stuttery moans, “You’re fucking --”

With a slick noise, Jordan pulls back, smirking at the way John gives an affronted whimper, legs trembling as he turns to glare at Jordan over his shoulder.

“Oh, hush,” Jordan says, voice rough. He smacks John’s flank: “Flip over.”

And, yeah, that’s _much_ better, because like this, with John on his back and his knees up against his chest, Jordan can see his face around the swell of his -- admittedly, a little bigger than he’d been expecting -- cock. John’s flushed red all the way from his nipples to his hairline, eyes closed and face radiating pleasure as Jordan dives back in when he coaxes more slick out with a couple of gentle strokes to John’s prostate. 

John comes again with Jordan’s fingers and face buried in his ass, crying out hoarsely; he sucks in a few shaky breaths when Jordan licks up his come, gently as he possibly can from John’s softening cock.

“Oh, fuck,” John’s saying, “Oh, my god. I -- I might actually die.”

Jordan hums, grinning as he crawls up to lean down for a kiss, just a quick, chaste thing because his jaw’s aching a bit. “Not gonna let you.” He hums, nuzzles against John’s throat for a second before he crawls over to get one of the containers of fruit from the cooler. “C’mon, you need some breakfast.”

John grumbles, rolling onto his side to stretch again before shuffling up to sit against the crush of pillows. He sighs, then says, “Feed me?”

Tossing the half-empty water back to John, Jordan says, “Drink that first.”

Though he rolls his eyes, John does as Jordan says; he tosses the empty water bottle towards the trashcan near his bedroom door once he’s finished. “You should drink something too,” John points out, and, right, yeah, Jordan should.

He bends again, fishes out one of the sports drink and chugs it in one go.

“You should also eat something,” John says, and -- his cheeks are already starting to go pink again.

Shaking his head, Jordan shuffles up close, settling up against the pillows and coaxing John to lean against him. John goes one better, shifts back to lying down, his head pillowed on Jordan’s thigh, lips parted for the slice of strawberry that Jordan holds out. His expression goes blissed out when Jordan threads the fingers of his free hand into John’s hair.

All too soon, John loses interest in the strawberries and instead starts nuzzling Jordan’s cock.

Hissing, Jordan tightens his fingers in John’s hair and tries to guide him away. “Not yet, babe.”

“ _Why_ , though,” John grumbles, twisting until he’s belly-down again. “You’re hard again.”

“The rut does what it wants, dude, dunno what to tell you,” Jordan answers, nostrils flaring when John’s scent dips and sweetens, ready for another round. “Tell you what. You keep eating these and I’ll make you come again.” 

Before the sentence is even all the way out, John’s grabbing the container and canting his hips up. “Mm,” John says, voice laced through with a purr, “You gonna make me?”

“I...do you want me to?” Jordan asks, blinking a little bit at the implications. He’d never -- it’s a good thing John’s asking, because Jordan would never ask and he’ll sure as hell never use that tone on anyone just on a whim. 

Johnny nods, cheeks and nose going dusky pink. 

His smile’s a little dazed already, which makes Jordan hesitate, but it’s -- it should be safe, and if John doesn’t like it, then he won’t do it again. So, gathering some resolve, Jordan commands him to, “ _Eat_ ,” and, sure enough, Johnny harshes out a moan, rutting against the mattress on a shiver as he stuffs another strawberry slice between his lips. His eyes go hazy and --

Jordan’s not ready, definitely not yet, but he’s here to serve.

He _lives_ to serve, especially if it makes John make noises like that. “Fuck,” he says, trying not let it go completely to his head. He shifts until he’s able to swing a leg over John’s, framing his ass between both hands before squeezing. “That’s -- you’re gonna be good for me, eh?”

Nodding again, John breathes out, “Yeah,” and grabs another strawberry.

Jordan clambers off the bed, yanking John by the hips until his legs are dangling; he shoulders them apart, kneeling at the edge of the mattress, and dives in. 

 

*~*~*~*

 

Jordan’s not able to nap after he makes John come again, but he’s happy enough to keep his nose tucked into the crook of his neck until he rouses again, stretching into the sunbeam that bisects the mattress.

“Good afternoon,” Jordan mumbles, pressing a kiss to the crest of a cheekbone. He waits for John to return the greeting before he asks, “Might I interest you in a Gatorade?”

John snorts a laugh and then turns over to face Jordan. “I’d rather have your knot, but I guess a Gatorade’s fine.” He stretches again and then wrinkles his nose as Jordan reaches over to grab the bottle for him. “We kind of reek, dude.”

With a dopey grin, Jordan agrees and wiggles his eyebrows. “We _do_.”

“No, I meant that we should _shower_ ,” John says. At Jordan’s wounded expression, though, he rolls his eyes. “Okay, fine. But you’re bathing with me once this is over.”

Jordan can’t help but grin. “Like I’d turn that down.” He pets down John’s flank and then grips his ass, unable to resist. “Second wave’s gonna hit soon,” he says, “Any requests?”

John rolls onto his back, making Jordan’s hand shift to his stomach. He blinks up at the ceiling, considering. “I…” He flips back onto his side, cheeks pink as he forces himself to look at Jordan’s face when he says, “I’d like to ride you. I think, anyways. I’ve never been knotted like that, obviously, so....I don’t know how doable it actually is. Have you tried that?”

Nodding, Jordan says, “It’s not _terrible_ , but it’ll probably be hell on my ribs. No offense.”

“None taken,” John says. He keeps thinking and Jordan just pets at the hair on his stomach and chest, waiting patiently. “So, how about we try? If it’s bad, we can move to our sides.”

With a considering hum, Jordan nods. “That works.”

There’s a beat where Jordan envisions it, John rolling his hips with his head thrown back and his mouth open -- and he can feel the pleased growl start up, deep in his chest, at the same time cock gives an interested little twitch. He wants it.

Now, preferably.

Jordan takes the Gatorade from John and sets it on the nightstand, and hilariously enough, rather than pouting about it, John perks up, scent going deep on the saffron with interest. “Yeah?” he asks, immediately trying to wrap himself up in Jordan’s limbs. “You’re finally ready?”

Laughing, Jordan nods. 

John gives a happy little chirp, just half a purr like he can’t really help it, and leans in for a kiss that Jordan’s more than happy to oblige. Almost instantly, John’s swinging a leg over Jordan’s hips and grinding, already --

“Fuck, Johnny,” Jordan says, “You’re already so wet again, my god.”

John whines and grinds down, path made smooth by the slick he trails over Jordan’s groin. He thumbs at Jordan’s nipples, which -- _okay_ , that’s definitely not something he’s spent enough time doing, clearly. John’s relentless, though, and everything’s so slick that Jordan hardly has to lift his hips before he’s sliding, against barely any resistance at all, _christ_ , right into John’s hole. 

Jordan curses and John sighs, tossing his head back as he squeezes at Jordan’s pecs.

“There’s --” John starts, voice catching on an aborted purr, “There’s literally nothing better than this feeling, right here.” He finally opens his eyes, staring at Jordan with an intensity he’s only ever seen on the ice. “So full, alpha.”

And -- fuck, John knows exactly what he’s doing. “Yeah?”

Nodding, John lets his chin drop to his chest as he starts a slow grind, a sinuous roll that starts from his core and drives Jordan deeper. “Feels -- like I’m meant for this,” he admits, cheeks going somehow darker, flushed as he is already. “I’ve…”

Jordan’s caught, staring in wonder as John speaks, fever-drunk and giddy. “You’ve what?” he asks, just a hint of insistence in his tone.

It makes John shudder; he rolls his hips a little faster. “I’ve been wanting this since I took you to dinner.”

“This?” Jordan asks, feeling completely dumb. John’s said before that he doesn’t go for alphas, so why would he want to fuck one. _Especially_ when said alpha’s still bummed about being traded away from everything he’s grown to know and love.

“Well. _You_ ,” John corrects, and --

_Oh._ But -- 

“Why?” Jordan asks, fingers digging into John’s quadriceps as he keeps a steady pace. He’s dripping, making a mess of Jordan’s pubes, dousing him in pheromones than lock him in _tight_ , making him want nothing else ever. “Me, though. Really?”

John nods again, scraping his nails down to catch on Jordan’s nipples. “Worlds.”

Jordan’s breath catches and -- okay, maybe part of that is the way John’s moving over him, but -- “What the fuck,” he says, “That was -- Why’d you _wait_ so long?”

Laughing breathlessly, John leans in and covers Jordan, kissing him with hands in his hair. “Had to be sure. Never knew if I’d get to play with you again, either.”

And, okay, that’s fair. Jordan can get behind it, even, because he’d had a crush on both JT and Sid at the time, but he’d still been wrapped up enough in his Oilers teammates that he hadn’t minded at all when PK Subban would drape himself all over John’s back. Omegas were in separate dressing rooms, so it’s not like Jordan had experienced the full brunt of their pheromones or scents anyways. But…

It’s not even _about_ that, not entirely. He’d had a crush on John’s hockey first, and then his tenacity, his laugh, his kindness and humility. The years have been kind to him, too, because, _god_ , he’s somehow gotten even more attractive. And now that Jordan actually _knows_ John, knows that he’s a little bit of an asshole, incredibly sensitive and painfully shy about certain things? 

Jordan’s pretty sure his crush is -- okay, maybe it’s a little more than a crush at this point. 

John shivers and pulls back to stare at Jordan, clearly scenting the fuck out of his thoughts.

Gradually, John stills, just staring at Jordan’s face with open wonder, like he’s seeing something completely new; it makes Jordan feel split wide and completely vulnerable. And -- that’s not a bad thing, he’s realizing, because John’s purring again and tucking his face into the crook of Jordan’s neck. He’s not biting, not even really scenting, just holding him and being held. 

Head swimming and heart pounding, Jordan doesn’t think he needs to verbalize anything; it’s too soon, anyways. He’s content to just hold John and let him bask in whatever it is he’s feeling.

It takes a minute, of processing maybe, before John lifts his head and fixes Jordan with serious eyes and an intense expression before he leans in for another kiss. It’s careful, chaste, but no less powerful than any of the heated kisses they’d shared before. Even caught up in the middle of his rut the way he is, Jordan’s surprised to feel perfectly content letting John dictate the pace, turn Jordan’s head for a different angle, bracelet his fingers around Jordan’s wrists once he finally sits back and rolls his hips.

He brings Jordan’s hands to his chest, drops his own to Jordan’s stomach.

Things don’t stay slow after that, and, honestly, how could they? John’s flushed and gorgeous and purring and won’t stop staring Jordan right in the face, arms shaking as he keeps himself upright using Jordan’s abdomen.

Jordan makes it easier, takes a little more because he wants it and thinks that maybe John won’t mind it either; with Jordan’s bent knees as a brace, John’s able to lean back and let Jordan meet him more than halfway with quick, graceless thrusts. John yelps, mouth dropping open as he scrabbles around to dig his fingers into Jordan’s skin; his brows knit when Jordan fucks into him again in the same angle and then he’s saying, “Right there, right there, yeah, yeah, yeah.”

As much as he might want to, Jordan keeps himself from flipping them over and pounding into John. Because, this? This is John’s show and Jordan’s an active participant, yes, but he’s definitely more than okay with the way John keeps him pinned with hands and eyes and hips. But he’s growling, unable to keep quiet, especially when John starts to come, shooting milky-white trails up Jordan’s stomach.

It’s almost like what they’d talked about -- and John seems to realize it too once he’s come down a little bit, because he keeps grinding his hips, using Jordan to fuck himself as he pushes the mess into Jordan’s skin.

And that? That combined with the absolute look of satisfaction on John’s face, the purr that rumbles out makes Jordan seize up, knot swelling so fast he’s dizzy with it. That just makes John purr louder, slumping back to splay across Jordan’s knees as he keeps grinding up, trying uselessly to shove his knot and his come deeper.

God, what he’d give for this to be for real. He’d give John so many babies if he wanted them.

John’s scent goes bright, scorching the back of Jordan’s throat with its intensity and -- Oh. Oh, _shit_ , he must’ve said that out loud.

Jordan’s still coming, clearly reduced to nothing but baser thoughts and urges, but John’s purring up a storm, leaning forward to caress Jordan’s cheeks and jaw and throat like he wants nothing more than to scent. 

“Come here, come here,” Jordan says, struggling upright.

With a keening noise, John finally slumps forward, wrapping his arms around Jordan’s shoulders as he nuzzles and scents like his life depends on it. And it’s...it’s really intimate, sitting like this, just holding each other upright while still so connected. Jordan rests his head on John’s shoulder, unable to keep his hands still; John’s got his hands fucking up Jordan’s hair, so he’s clearly in the same boat.

Jordan doesn’t really think about it just says, “I’m sorry if that…Just, I’m sorry.”

John’s purring stops, his hands still. He pulls back, fixing Jordan with a borderline desperate expression; his cheeks are still flushed and his body’s still relaxed. “Why would you be sorry?”

“I -- this wasn’t --” Jordan cuts himself off with a sigh, squeezing a little tighter around John’s middle, hugging him closer. “It’s not cool to say shit like that when you can’t get away if you need to.”

Surprisingly, John rolls his eyes and goes even more relaxed, slumping forward again. “Oh, shut up,” he slurs, “I thought you were gonna say you didn’t mean it.”

Something warm and possessive grows in Jordan’s chest. “I...but -- Johnny, literally this bond’s just so that we can figure out if we want to keep doing it. I can’t just -- pull a fast one on you like that.”

“And that’s the kind of discussion starter that we should be having to _know_ if we want to do this long-term,” John says, shrugging into Jordan’s hug, “I think we learned we were compatible the second my heat actually hit. Although, yeah, fine. Maybe it would’ve been better to wait ‘til after sex.”

“ _That’s_ why I was apologizing.”

“But I’m telling you that I don’t care,” John insists, scent going strangely earthy for a moment, “I’m gonna get off on what gets you off. And if that’s you wanting to put a fucking baby in me, then so be it.”

Jordan snorts once he realizes that this kind of shit -- the talking back, the making sure Jordan doesn’t feel dumb, the _communication_ \-- is exactly what’s making him fall for John. 

He doesn’t dare say it aloud.

He knows John can scent it.

“You want some more water?” Jordan asks, skimming a finger down John’s spine. It’s less sweaty now, but still warm. “I can cook something for you, too, if you want.”

John huffs a laugh. “How ya gonna do that when you’re balls deep, Jordan?”

Rolling his eyes, grinning, Jordan says, “I meant afterwards.” He leans, still holding John carefully, and grabs the discarded Gatorade. 

John finishes it quickly and tosses it towards the trash, just like earlier. But unlike earlier, he’s quick to snuggle right back into Jordan’s embrace, squirming and -- yeah, it smells like he’s got another round of heat coming on. 

Though he’s sensitive as hell, Jordan shifts his hips and runs a finger down down down John’s spine until he can feel exactly where they’re connected; he delights in the groan that wrenches free from John’s throat. He smirks, asks, “Yeah?” and traces over John’s slick, puffy hole, watching the way John shudders. “Think you can come on my knot again?” 

John nods, frantic. “Shouldn’t take long,” he says. He groans again, drops his forehead to Jordan’s shoulder.

And -- he’s right. It doesn’t take long. 

All Jordan has to do is pet at his hole, talk about how he’s stuffed so full and it’s still not enough, bend his head to take John’s nipple in his mouth and then he’s shuddering, coming weakly between their bellies. The come’s thin and thready, but Jordan still scoops it up to get a taste, rubbing the rest of the mess into John’s stomach as he pants and purrs, still finding his way back down.

“Gonna make you come again when my knot goes down,” Jordan says, pressing a kiss to John’s sweaty hair. “Want you to sit on my face.”

“You --” John bites Jordan’s neck, probably trying to drown himself in pheromones to make sure it’s not _just_ the knot talking. “Wow, yeah, okay. Fine. But if you suffocate, it’s not my fault.”

“What a way to go, though, right?”

And sure enough, just ten minutes later, he’s got John’s thighs around his ears and his tongue up John’s asshole, licking out his own come. His chin’s a mess and he can’t stop growling, but at least John doesn’t seem to mind -- especially if they way he’s whimpering and shaking is any indication at all. 

 

*~*~*~*

 

John doesn’t say anything about earlier until much later, when they’re cuddling on the couch while the chili is simmering on the stove. And it’s -- it’s a non sequitur, just, “So, how many kids do you want?” straight out of the blue.

Well.

Maybe not, because he still smells like heat and Jordan’s probably another thirty minutes away from being ready to knot again. This is… _apparently_ a conversation they need to have before they get back to it.

“Well,” Jordan says, petting from the cap of John’s shoulder down his thick bicep to his forearm. “I don’t...think I have a specific number picked out or anything.”

“More than one, though, right?”

Jordan mulls it over. “Is one even possible? Since you’re...ya know.”

“Yeah, that’s why I was asking,” John says. “My dziadziu was the first male omega in the family. He only had my mom and uncle though.”

“So...two at a minimum, you think?” Jordan asks, hoping his scent doesn’t betray how his heart’s pounding, ears ringing, thinking _not enough, not enough, not enough_.

“I --” John huffs out a breath, turning to rest his arms and chin on Jordan’s chest to look at his face. “Seems like you want more than just two,” he says with a teasing grin. “I think my minimum is three.”

Jordan nods. “That’s a good number.”

John, though, smirks and pets up Jordan’s scruffy beard to thumb at his cheek. “You want more than that?”

“I…” Jordan takes a deep breath. Looking at the softest, sweetest smile on John’s face, Jordan figures it might as well be time to go for broke. “I want as many as you’d let me have. You’re, what, twenty-seven now?” At John’s nod, Jordan says, “It’s safe for you to carry up through your mid-thirties. I don’t know what your life-plan looks like, aside from, ya know, winning the Cup at some point, but…”

“You’d keep me pregnant for ten whole years if you could, eh?”

Breathing a little easier at the unphased smile on John’s face, Jordan nods and says, “I know it’s not plausible.”

“It’s not,” John agrees. His hand slides into Jordan’s hair and his scent stays equally sweet and spicy. “But, I’m open to more than three if the whole pregnancy thing isn’t awful.”

Jordan goes lax from relief and the way John’s doling out such affectionate touches. “What’s the timeline, then? Stanley Cup first?”

John tugs at Jordan’s ear and nips at his chin. “Don’t fucking jinx it,” he says. “Let’s give it ‘til...2020. Cup or no Cup -- _holy shit_.”

There aren’t any words for the noise Jordan makes, the brightness that suffuses his chest and makes him feel like his body isn’t big enough to contain the intensity of his emotions. He’s got John flipped around, buried in the couch, and can’t stop bussing kisses all over his face and neck and chest. A burst of cinnamon suffuses the space between them and Jordan can’t help but gnaw on John’s bond bite, pouring every ounce of intention into it that he can.

He knots John again.

It takes a while, but Jordan makes sure John eats the chili, too. 

 

*~*~*~*

 

Jordan wakes up to vivid snatches of a dream-memory: he’s chasing two kids around the yard, a boy with dark, dark hair and bright blue eyes and a little girl with lighter hair, lighter eyes. He feels like his family is safe and happy; there’s a heavy weight on his hand and then another little boy is looking up at him, smiling and saying something that Jordan can’t quite make out, but he knows to turn, to look in a different direction. He sees Johnny, slightly round in the belly, holding two more babies. 

It’s -- this is his _family_ , and everything in him wants to refuse to wake up, because he knows that this? Nothing can beat this.

He startles, gasping in a sharp breath when John pinches at his nipple.

“Good, you’re awake,” John says breathily. “Need your knot; one last time, c’mon.”

Jordan snorts, rubbing a hand over his face. “‘Course I’m awake now, you fucking sadist,” he grumbles, rubbing at his nipple. 

He takes a second to blink himself awake, noting the way John’s scent is still sticky-sweet, albeit much fainter; after a quick assessment, he realizes he’s much more lax, finally freed from the itchy-anxiety haze of rut.

“ _Jordan._ ”

Still bleary, Jordan just rolls a little closer, hikes up John’s leg and feels between his cheeks for wetness and -- yep, that’ll work. John makes a telling noise, clutching a little desperately at Jordan’s shoulders as he scoots closer, hikes his leg up higher on Jordan’s hip like he needs more. Jordan’s not hard enough, not yet, but he can offer his fingers and his mouth until he is.

“Fuck,” John says, “How is it -- how are you --” He cuts himself off, choking on a purr as Jordan slips three fingers in, easy as anything. “Why’s it so good with you?”

Jordan gives a half-shrug, grinning as he leans in to kiss John’s nose. “‘S the heat talking, probably.”

“But it’s almost over,” John argues, voice hitching and lulling, “And it’s still…”

“You might be a little biased,” Jordan says.

“Just take the fucking compliment,” John bites out, and then, “Oh, _jesus_.”

To be fair, Jordan probably could’ve given John a little bit of warning before he traded his fingers for his dick, but like. John doesn’t seem to mind, though, considering the way he’s making this gorgeous, shocked expression like it’s some overwhelming mixture of pleasure and surprise. 

Jordan still feels only half-there, but he’s more than happy to kiss the desperate whimpers out of John’s mouth.

He fucks in slowly, sometimes gets a little distracted just sleepily kissing and holding John close, but then John’s scent’ll go sharp and tangy and then the cycle just starts over again. For a while, anyway. At least up until John gets frustrated enough to push Jordan onto his back.

In the moonlight like this, John looks a little wild, just taking exactly what he needs.

Jordan tucks an arm behind his head, propping himself up higher on the pillow, and just watches, _feels_. It’s less intense without the urgency of rut, but he almost feels like he’s finally able to actively _experience_ it. He definitely feels more present than he had before, and he hopes -- he hopes it’ll still be this good for John even outside of his heat. Because, yeah, it’s waning, but he’s definitely still a little clouded by it.

Those pheromones are no joke.

John’s conditioning is definitely good enough to keep him from tiring, but he can’t seem to settle on an angle that he wants, so Jordan pats at his hip and says, “Let me.”

John whines.

“Hey, shh,” Jordan says, and resituates them so that John’s on his belly, a pillow clutched between his arms. Jordan spreads his legs, bends down for a quick inhale, a slurping lick, and then settles in, sliding home. “Yeah, I’ve got you, Johnny.”

“ _God_ ,” John groans into the pillow.

Jordan covers him, pressing him into the bed, kisses at his neck and shoulders. “Gonna knot you soon,” he says, voice rough from sleep, “Gonna make you all full again.”

“Please, please, Jordan,” John’s chanting, “C’mon, please, I need it.”

Though he doesn’t say anything to that effect, Jordan knows, and he’s thinking, _anything you want_ , and startles a bit at just how true it is. “Fuck,” is all he’s able to say before he grunts and -- his knot’s sore, sensitive, but it swells anyways, lured back to life by omega pheromones. 

It makes John whimper, tremble.

“You’re okay,” Jordan says, petting down beneath him at John’s hip as he kisses his shoulder. He’s still coming, albeit weakly, but he thinks he could manage to get John off. “You need a hand?”

John shakes his head, cranes it back to give Jordan a quick kiss.

“But you didn’t come,” Jordan points out. “Are you sure?”

“I don’t think I _can_ anymore,” John says, laughing a little into the pillow. He goes boneless, sinking deeper into the bed. “Can you sleep like this?”

“Don’t wanna crush you. You need some water first?”

Again, John shakes his head, so Jordan says, “Oh, thank god,” rolls them onto their sides, and shoves his nose into the cap of John’s shoulder, falling very quickly back into sleep.

 

*~*~*~*

 

It’s well into the afternoon by the time Jordan wakes again, sticky and sore and satisfied, bone-deep. He’d slipped out of John some time in the night, but they’re still pressed together as though they’d been too exhausted to shift even minutely during their sleep.

He realizes he’s starving, and in desperate need of a bath.

And, well.

He’d promised John that they could take a bath together once this was all said and done. Plus, John’s probably going to wake up just as ravenous, so it’s not like they can’t kill two birds with one stone. 

Jordan extricates himself from John -- who doesn’t even so much as snuffle -- and drags the cooler into bathroom, careful of the detritus of empty water bottles littering the floor. He runs the tap until it’s hot enough for his liking and then plugs the drain, wishing again for some bubbles or salts or a fizzy bomb to drop in so that he can adequately pamper his omega.

Luckily enough, John’s tub is more than big enough for both of them with it’s deep stone basin and wide ledges. It takes approximately forever to heat up, but Jordan’s fine with that because it gives him time to sort through the cooler for rest of the sliced fruit and a pair of sweating water bottles. He goes with the apples, because they’re threatening to go a little brown, and the rest of the strawberries. 

If he thought John would let him get away with it, he’d go downstairs and cook them a real breakfast, but he knows John’ll wrinkle his nose and make some type of comment, so -- he doesn’t even realize he’s grinning to himself until he catches movement in the doorway, smiles wider when he sees John’s bleary eyes and bedhead. “Good morning,” he says.

John grumbles something in response that doesn’t even sound remotely like English as he heads straight to the toilet. He pees; he washes his hands and then bends to toss some water on his face, starts to brush his teeth.

Jordan stands, joining him at the sink. 

Even over the roar of the tub filling, he can still make out the chirpy little purr John looses when Jordan nuzzles at his shoulder before reaching for his own toothbrush.

They move around each other silently, brushing their teeth as they gather the shampoo and conditioner, towels, robes for later. Once they’re finished, Jordan steps into the tub first, glad that the water isn’t too hot, and then offers out a hand for John to follow him in. He tilts his chin up for a kiss and says, “Thanks for staying filthy for me.”

John laughs, says, “You’re welcome,” before he sits and sinks down into the water, letting out a satisfied groan. 

Jordan joins him, just basking in the way the water loosens his sore muscles for a moment. 

Then he’s all action, ready to take care of John:

“Eat,” Jordan orders softly, just like earlier, offering a strawberry just a hair's breadth away from his lips. 

John takes it between his teeth, blinking sleepily at Jordan, scent soft around the edges.

Once they’ve both had their fill, Jordan wets the loofah -- and thank god he has one, otherwise Jordan would’ve just had to use a face-towel -- and pours in a generous helping of body wash. 

Straddling John’s thighs, Jordan gently takes his arm and starts gently scrubbing, starting at his fingertips, up his forearms and biceps. He’s careful to keep the pressure just heavy enough to keep it from tickling once he gets to John’s underarms, soaping up the hair and maybe mourning the way the stink starts to fade a little bit.

John purrs and purrs, his eyes closed as Jordan pampers him, reaching below the waterline to get at his chest and belly and thighs. He’ll have to let John do his dick, because a loofah’s definitely too rough for that, but then John goes when Jordan urges him to turn around so that he can get his back and shoulders.

“This is nice,” John says after a while, purrs gone silent but scent still cinnamon-bright with happiness. “You might’ve been right.”

“‘Might’ve,’” Jordan mocks, pressing a kiss to the purpling back side of the bond-bite. “You know this would be better with a mountain of bubbles....maybe a couple of candles, a glass of wine.”

“A good book,” John adds, grinning lazily over his shoulder as he blinks at Jordan. 

Jordan nods. “Whatever my omega wants.” He thinks nothing of it, not really, but he’s pleased when John’s scent tingles at the back of his throat, so full of happiness. He abandons the loofah and uses his hands for another quick scrub-down, skirting the bond-bite once again. “C’mere, let me do your hair, John.”

The faucet will have to suffice until John’ll let Jordan get a full kit, complete with a pitcher and different soaps and essential oils, but John purrs and doesn’t stop even when Jordan accidentally gets shampoo in his eyes.

Jordan’s more careful with the conditioner.

Once he’s finished, Jordan tugs free the drain and stands, stepping out onto the fluffy bath mat so that he can offer a hand out to John. But instead of taking it, John’s brows are furrowed. “What about you?”

“Oh, no,” Jordan says, “I’ll just take a shower.”

John frowns, but stands. “Well, then let me shower with you.”

Though he wants to protest, say that this isn’t about him, Jordan knows what that clench to John’s jaw means. So, he steps to the side when John finally takes his hand, and lets John get the shower going, reciprocating everything that Jordan did for him.

Once they’re finished, both finally clean and smelling more like themselves than each other, Jordan bundles John into a robe and then ushers him in front of the mirror to first brush his hair and then to clean and take care of the bond bite. 

He catches John watching his face in the mirror. “What?”

“ _What_ what?” John retorts, cheeks going pink.

“What’s that face all about?” Jordan asks, dabbing a little more antiseptic to the bite, quelling the urge to wipe it all off and make it smell like him again. “So serious.”

John’s silent for a moment, mouth opening and closing, just a few beats too long, but then he admits, “I don’t want it to fade.”

Jordan can’t stop the growl that wells up in his throat. “If you don’t want it to, then I won’t let it,” he says fiercely. He’s -- god, he shouldn’t feel so...intense, but. Well. It’s _John_ , not just some regular ass person. “You can wear my mark forever if you want.”

Nodding, John starts to say something, but only a purr comes out as he turns to face Jordan, no longer staring at him over his own shoulder in the mirror. He wraps Jordan up in a hug, crushing him to his chest and it’s -- it’s funny, really, that he’s so small and John’s so big and they still just _fit_ together like this.

“We’re gonna have kids,” Jordan says, laughing a little bit. 

John pulls back, grinning widely even as his eyes fill up with tears. “We’re gonna have a _lot_ of kids.”

“We’re gonna get married.”

Nodding, John says, “We can do that.”

“We’re gonna win the Cup, too.”

At least this time, Jordan’s half-expecting it when John twists his nipple and says, “I told you not to fucking jinx it.”

 

*~*~*~*

 

There’s a lot of hooting and hollering when they’re welcomed back into the locker room for morning skate the next day; Cal and Zeeker and Seids marvel at the growth of their bond-bites while Hickey gives Jordan a sly congratulations. 

Shit’s a little different though, more relaxed even, but Coach puts Jordan on the second line instead of the first with John and -- he’s a little bereft, still kind of sensitive after his rut, but it actually doesn’t feel terrible, surprisingly enough. He clicks with Barzy better now that he’s not constantly distracted by Johnny.

By the time they’re packed up, Jordan feels mildly better about it. 

Maybe it’ll be good.

Jordan strips and showers, ignoring the guys’ jibes about his scratched up back and bitten neck, and meets John’s eyes once they’re both back in the locker room and dressed. John tilts his head towards the door, mouths, “Mine.”

Jordan nods.

John’ll probably make him put his whole house back into order, and he’ll definitely bully Jordan into napping with him and eating some overly bland pasta to balance out the spicy ass chicken he loves. They’ll fight over what to watch on Netflix and bicker about Jordan fucking up John’s nest when it’s time for bed, but...

Yeah. It’ll definitely be good.

**Author's Note:**

> catch me in the [sin bin](https://onceuponamoonfic.tumblr.com/). prompts are always welcome!


End file.
